


Call me a criminal, maybe (baby)

by nataliaa



Series: I ain't nobody's baby, baby [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Family Reunions, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Light Angst, M/M, Nicky-centric, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaa/pseuds/nataliaa
Summary: “But you must have people in Genova who love you! Won’t your family miss you?” Yusuf insists.“As I have told you," Nicolò says through gritted teeth, "my father died, my blessed mother has not one sensible bone in her body, my stepfather and my brothers are assholes, and my sister married averyunsettling apothecary. The only thing I miss about the monastery is Brother Guglielmo’s wine. And his blowjobs, but frankly you are improving so it’s becoming less of a concern.”Yusuf blinks, makes a sound like a sheep being dragged off to slaughter, and stalks off. “Why do I even bother,” he hisses over his shoulder.Or: there are minor deceptions, unwanted family reunions, Nicolò istrying, and shockingly, nobody dies.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: I ain't nobody's baby, baby [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202441
Comments: 36
Kudos: 220





	Call me a criminal, maybe (baby)

**Author's Note:**

> (Mamma mia) here we go again! This is technically a continuation of _Ain't evil but I ain't a saint_ , but it can easily be read as a stand-alone. After previously writing a bit of Joe getting closure with a lovely and supportive family, I started pondering a contrasting scenario for Nicky. It developed a mind of its own, and ended up different enough in tone to the earlier installments of this verse that I figured it warranted its own space. (They're still snarky idiots, though.)
> 
> Please note that Nicky's relatives are not the nicest people, and they express some homophobic and Islamophobic sentiment (it's brief and, I think, quite light - but please let me know if you have concerns or would like notes about how to skip it!).
> 
> Title, as always, is from Elle King's "Baby Outlaw".

Being vulnerable with Yusuf is extremely uncomfortable. Nicolò wishes he knew how to avoid it.

“But surely you must have people in Genova who love you! Won’t your family miss you?” Yusuf insists, either failing to notice or deliberately ignoring the way that Nicolò is hunching in on himself and avoiding eye contact. It’s probably the latter.

“No,” Nicolò says through gritted teeth. “As I have _told_ you, my father died, my blessed mother has not one sensible bone in her body, my stepfather and my brothers are assholes, my dear sweet sister married a _very_ unsettling apothecary, and all of them were rather relieved to see me off to the monastery. The only thing I miss about the monastery is Brother Guglielmo’s wine. And his blowjobs, but frankly you are improving rapidly so it’s becoming less of a concern.”

Yusuf blinks, then makes a sound somewhat like a sheep being dragged off to slaughter, and stalks off away from Nicolò. “Why do I even _bother_ ,” he hisses over his shoulder.

Nicolò lets him go. It’s not like he’ll get far, anyway, since he’s left his rucksack and all the food with Nicolò. Plus Nicolò has it on good authority that Yusuf thinks _his_ blowjobs are unparalleled, so he’s fairly certain Yusuf won’t be gone long.

He wishes Yusuf would stop pressing the subject of _home_ quite so obsessively. It is not a topic that Nicolò cares to discuss, much less a place he particularly wishes to see again, but Yusuf seems to be laboring under the impression that these sorts of conversations will _bring them closer together_ and that Nicolò needs to _process everything that’s happened_.

In return for the probing questions he poses, Yusuf shares unsolicited and interminable anecdotes about Mahdia: Nicolò learns of the brilliance of whitewashed buildings against the sparkling turquoise sea, the heavy fruit-laden branches of orange trees hanging over courtyard walls, the tangy scent of Yusuf’s mother’s tajine, the deep rumble of his father’s voice reading him to sleep as a child.

Nicolò hates it. He particularly hates the way the stories make him homesick for a place he does not know, how they make him miss people he has never met. He refuses to reciprocate, unwilling to admit that his own memories are dominated by dark, twisting streets, a crowded and hazy port, and a constant longing for his father’s attention that had been transformed, abruptly, into a constant desire to evade his stepfather’s. The problem is that Yusuf apparently cannot take a fucking hint.

The problem is also that Nicolò can only take so much of this inquisition before he fucks up and accidentally mentions Lucrezia. Nicolò is not great at diversions under the best of circumstances, and and the stress of Yusuf’s constant prodding is making it increasingly likely that he will trip himself into a conversation that he would like desperately _not_ to have with Yusuf. Not now, and preferably, not ever.

When Yusuf returns—he manages to absent himself until nightfall, and Nicolò will never admit that in the interim he had actually become quite worried—he is abashed and apologetic.

“I shouldn’t have pressed,” he says, hovering just far enough away from Nicolò to make it a bit awkward. “I thought it would help for you to talk about home, like it does for me, but I see now that I was wrong. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

His eyes are all wide and sparkling in the firelight, eyebrows arched high and earnest, and it’s very difficult for Nicolò to resent him for trying to get Nicolò to be vulnerable when Yusuf is making _himself_ so vulnerable now.

Nicolò rolls his eyes. “For the love of God, just come over here already.”

Yusuf obliges. Nicolò uses his mouth, rather than his words, to show Yusuf that all is forgiven. Neither of them mentions Genova again.

Several days later, Nicolò wakes up feeling unmistakably seasick, and it’s only through dumb luck that he rolls and vomits into an empty patch of grass and not directly onto Yusuf. By the time his heaving stomach is empty, Yusuf is awake and carefully smoothing Nicolò’s hair out of his face.

“You dreamed of the women, too, huh?” he asks as he passes Nicolò a water-skin.

“Fuck the ocean and everything in it,” Nicolò rasps, before taking a generous gulp of water. “How the fuck does it turn my stomach just to _dream_ about it?”

“It’s very embarrassing for you,” Yusuf says cheerfully, “being from a port city yet unable to tolerate the sea.”

Nicolò glares but bites his tongue. Yusuf _knows_ that Nicolò had never actually been on a boat until he left for the pil—the holy—well, the worst decision he’d ever made. Yusuf knows this, and he continues to give Nicolò nonstop shit about it, and this is just one of many, many reasons why Nicolò is now doing his best not to provide any further ammunition in the form of personal information.

“Anyway, I might have an idea of where they are,” Yusuf continues, dropping the teasing— _for the moment_ , Nicolò thinks darkly— in a way he never would have only months previous. “Should we try to find them?”

* * *

Yusuf claims to have heard and understood some of the ship’s crew speaking in his dream, leading him to determine that the women are sailing somewhere off the coast of England.

Nicolò has no idea whether Yusuf is right, and thinks that even if he is, their chances of actually finding the women based on the clues of “in a ship off the coast of England” are functionally nonexistent. But since there is literally nowhere else he needs to go and nothing else he needs to do, and since he might literally have all the time in the world, it seems like there’s no harm in following Yusuf on his mad little quest.

They skirt the Mediterranean, hopping on and off ships as they please—either by waving heavy purses or by disappearing in the crowds when pulling into port, never staying at sea for too long at a stretch—until they reach Brindisi. Yusuf decides they will continue north overland, despite how much longer it will take; he claims he has always wished to see the famed towns of Puglia.

Nicolò knows this is bullshit and that the real reason is, in fact, to spare Nicolò further seasickness. He also knows that getting off the water is in Yusuf’s interests as much as Nicolò’s at this point in their journey, because recently they’ve been doing a lot less fucking and a lot more of Nicolò puking into a bucket while Yusuf holds his hair and rubs his back. Nicolò is exceptionally eager to get back to their former dynamic. He both resents Yusuf’s comfort and ease while at sea, and is grudgingly charmed by the way Yusuf has cared for him. It’s confusing. And exhausting.

Being back on land is a relief. As soon as they reach their luxuriously large, private, and _unmoving_ guesthouse room, Nicolò makes it up to Yusuf the best way he knows how.

* * *

Yusuf seems to know what he’s doing, so Nicolò lets him navigate them along the coast, meandering north until they turn inland. They draw closer and closer to mountains that feel familiar, although Nicolò has certainly never been this far south before.

“They’re the Apennini,” the innkeeper at the next town says when Nicolò inquires, and looks at him incredulously. As if it should be obvious—and, Nicolò supposes, it rather was.

They must be a solid week’s travel from Genova, at least, but all of a sudden Nicolò can feel how close he is to home, for the first time in so many years. So many lifetimes, really.

He tries very hard to shove it down, not to give anything away to Yusuf, who certainly needs no encouragement in his enthusiasm for _everything_. He has, so far, been careful not to pry again, although Nicolò knows him well enough by now to sense how desperately he would like to. The fact that he is resisting this impulse for Nicolò’s sake is—well, it makes Nicolò feel something warm and fluttery in his chest. He tries to shove that down, too.

Ultimately, everything bubbles to the surface despite his efforts at restraint. He can’t _help_ it _:_ for the first time since they met, _Nicolò_ knows things that Yusuf doesn’t. He can identify the plants, he has better luck understanding the local languages, he wears what he wants and shaves his stubble and blends in effortlessly. It feels like letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

And then one day, they crest a hill and suddenly have a clear view of a coastal city and the sea beyond. It’s Genova.

Yusuf had been trailing behind slightly as they climbed—or maybe Nicolò had been pushing ahead, buffered by the surprising enthusiasm of being back in his homeland—and so Nicolò waits, staring down at a place he’d never thought to lay eyes on again. When Yusuf draws even with him, Nicolò can feel Yusuf staring not on the landscape before them, but at Nicolò.

“That’s Genova,” Nicolò says quietly, then flicks his gaze sideways to Yusuf. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Yusuf shrugs and does a very bad job of feigning nonchalance. “Hmm, that does seem about right, based the direction we took at that last fork and the number of days we’ve traveled from—”

“ _Yusuf._ ”

“Oh yes, fine, what do you want me to say then?” He glares at Nicolò but there’s no real malice in either his tone or his expression.

“Did you do this on purpose?” Nicolò asks, not sure what he wants to hear in reply.

“I mean,” Yusuf says, “traveling from Constantinople to England sort of necessitated that we pass _somewhere_ in the vicinity of Genova, although I suppose we could have sailed as far as Montpellier, but I admit I assumed you would prefer not to—”

Nicolò grimaces at the thought of the additional days at sea. “That’s fair,” he allows. “But did you realize—because you didn’t say anything—and you knew I had never travelled from this direction before, but—” He’s not quite sure what he’s trying to ask, or even why it’s bothering him, but Yusuf is a perceptive man, especially when it comes to Nicolò.

Yusuf huffs out a little breath, then reaches over and clasps Nicolò’s shoulder. He sort of slides his hand down Nicolò’s arm, both of them still standing side by side looking out over the city. It’s weirdly grounding, in a good way. When his hand reaches Nicolò’s, Yusuf grasps it and tugs a bit until Nicolò faces him.

Nicolò looks at Yusuf, at his curls just a bit damp with sweat from the uphill trek, his beard slightly in need of a trim, the way he’s biting down on his pink lower lip as he gazes back at Nicolò.

“I just wanted to make sure you had the option,” Yusuf says finally, squeezing Nicolò’s fingers a little. “I hope you’re not—I wasn’t trying to trick you, or make you do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t have to tell me anything and we never have to talk about it. We can walk right back down this mountain and away from the coast until we reach Torino, if you want. But I just thought, maybe, just in case—well.”

He cuts himself off and looks carefully at Nicolò, then shrugs a shoulder. “It’s there, and it’s up to you.”

“You did trick me a little,” Nicolò says after a minute. “And just when I thought—I thought you had _finally_ understood that maybe I didn’t have the same cozy, happy home as you, and I didn’t want to fucking talk about it." He sighs, draws in another breath, and lets it out more slowly, deliberately. "But that’s not really what happened, is it? Because you don't seem at all surprised to be here, overlooking a place I specifically told you I didn’t want to see again.”

They’re the words he hadn’t found a few moments ago, and as they tumble out of his mouth he knows they’re true. He feels like he was conned by the one person he was starting to think he could trust.

“Are the women even in England?” He asks suddenly, as a dark though strikes him. “Did you really recognize anything in the dreams, or did you just need to give me an excuse for traveling in this direction?”

“No!” Yusuf says immediately. “Nicolò, no. That is— _yes_ , the women and the sailors on their ship really are speaking English. And from what I’ve understood, they did set sail from England, although they’ve also mentioned Sweden, so we’ll have to figure out exactly where they are once we get a bit closer.”

They’re still holding hands, Nicolò realizes, as Yusuf rubs his thumb along Nicolò’s. It’s just so unfair, because _of course_ he’s right, and he knows it, and Nicolò knows it, and he knows _Nicolò_ knows too, but he’s too good a person to ever say it. Of course. He is simultaneously the best thing and the worst thing to ever happen to Nicolò. It’s infuriating, and Nicolò loves him.

_Oh, fuck._

Nicolò wants so badly to be pissed off, but as it turns out he _loves_ Yusuf, and that makes it quite challenging to maintain anger. Especially when Yusuf is making that stupid, sincere, wide-eyed face. Especially when, in spite of himself, Nicolò knows that Yusuf really was just trying to help in his own slightly misguided way.

And therein lies the true source of Nicolò’s frustration: now that they’re here, standing in the hills overlooking Genova, Nicolò finds that he actually does want to go have a look. Just quickly, just around the city. They absolutely will _not_ be seeking out any of his family. Just some general closure, or whatever. It’ll be fine.

* * *

Genova doesn’t look like Nicolò remembers it. The port is bright and colorful, full of ordinary people bustling about their ordinary, singular lives. The sun sparkles on the water, and it’s still early enough that the fish market doesn’t smell overpowering.

Nicolò’s feet move without him even thinking, carrying them past the new cathedral and down one side street and then another, until they are climbing steeply uphill. He’s not really sure what he’s doing, because he has absolutely no intention of actually seeing or interacting with a single member of his family, but—well, it’s home. He can at least walk by, see that the house is still standing, mutter a prayer for his mother, for all the good it may do her or anyone. Just a couple of minutes, and then he’ll gladly leave and never look back.

Yusuf, of course, is keeping up a steady stream of mostly one-sided conversation, the way he does when he’s trying to overcompensate, marveling at an architectural details that catch his eye and then comparing them unfavorably to Mahdia, all in the same breath. Nicolò is rapidly becoming exhausted, and not only because of the hill. He is concentrating very hard on not paying attention to Yusuf, which is why he doesn’t realize how far they’ve walked until the house is just in front of them, and why he doesn’t notice the woman coming out the front gate until it’s too late.

 _“Nicolò?”_ She gasps as her eyes fall upon him.

Nicolò’s first thought is that she’s still beautiful and she knows it. His second thought is that she’s older than he expected.

He frantically attempts to do some quick calculations. Has he been traveling with Yusuf for five years? Longer? And he had left Genova at least two years before he—before his first death. Plus three years in the monastery before that.

No wonder she no longer looks like a teenager.

Nicolò swallows hard. “Hello, Lucrezia.”

There is a moment of increasingly awkward silence, during which Lucrezia’s eyebrows steadily climb toward her hairline and Nicolò frantically racks his brain for something, _anything_ , even remotely appropriate, to say.

“Everyone thinks you’re dead, you know,” Lucrezia finally says in a strained voice.

And that’s the problem, Nicolò thinks: what can possibly be the appropriate thing to say to your ex-betrothed who you haven’t seen since you broke off the engagement to take monastic vows against your families’ wishes before fleeing the country to join a war you thought was holy and, subsequently, vanishing? It’s probably an unprecedented situation with regards to etiquette.

“Surprise?” Nicolò says lamely, and he knows it’s the wrong thing as Lucrezia’s eyebrows snap immediately back down and her lips purse.

“The others came back years ago.” She folds her arms across her chest. “At least, the few crossbowmen who survived. There weren’t many. But one of them was Francesco, and he’s rather convinced he _saw you die_.”

Nicolò has opened his mouth to—he’s not sure, exactly, but to somehow persuade her that whatever Francesco saw, which was probably _very_ convincing, was not in fact Nicolò’s death—when Yusuf takes a step forward that effectively places his body subtly between Nicolò and Lucrezia.

“Hello,” he says lightly, with a little half-bow ( _what the actual fuck_ , Nicolò thinks absently). “I’m Yusuf. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

He gives Nicolò a little side-eye, like somehow it’s possible that he and Lucrezia once crossed paths at a party without formally meeting. Also like Nicolò’s greatest mistake in the last two minutes has been neglecting proper introductions. He is such an idiot, and Nicolò loves him.

 _“Yusuf?”_ Lucrezia repeats, eyes narrowing, drawing backwards with a dramatic and wholly unnecessary flourish. She glances at Nicolò _significantly_. Nicolò sighs. He thinks he manages to keep it mostly internal, but he can’t be certain.

“Nicolò and I met in the aftermath of the battle,” Yusuf continues smoothly, serenely ignoring the incredulous looks he is receiving from both Lucrezia and Nicolò, “and I’m afraid I delayed his return by enlisting his assistance with a matter of some importance. I do apologize.”

He concludes his baffling alibi with an undeniably charming smile that, in Nicolò’s experience, has never failed. It doesn’t work: Lucrezia’s gaze lingers on his beard, and her expression goes from suspicious to disdainful.

“Oh, I see,” she says, with well-practiced frigid politeness that Nicolò recognizes all too well. “Well, surely you must understand how distraught Nicolò’s family has been, especially when he never returned from the east.”

“Naturally, Nicolò speaks often of his concerns for his family,” Yusuf replies, arching an eyebrow at Nicolò, who never remotely implied any such thing. “But what I can’t understand is why Nicolò never told me he had such a lovely sister.”

“Oh no—” says Nicolò, because this is _exactly_ what he’s been trying to avoid this whole time and there is literally no way he can see this conversation going well. “No, no—”

“Oh, I’m not his sister—” says Lucrezia.

Nicolò’s mind is completely blank. There should be something, _anything_ , he can say—some reasonable little white lie that Lucrezia won’t bother to correct and that Yusuf won’t think twice about. _Something—_

There’s nothing.

“We were engaged,” he blurts, seeing no way around it. Better for Yusuf to hear it from him first, even if only by a millisecond.

“You were _what_?” says Yusuf—

—just as Lucrezia calmly says, “I’m his sister-in-law.”

“ _My what now_ ,” Nicolò shrieks.

For a moment, the entire city seems freeze in silence as they stare at each other. Well, as Nicolò stares at Lucrezia, and Yusuf—Nicolò can feel it—stares at Nicolò.

“Perhaps you should come in,” Lucrezia sighs gesturing unnecessarily toward the gate she’d shut behind her only minutes ago. Nicolò begins to shake his head frantically, but Lucrezia just sighs again and opens the gate. “Come on, Nicolò. Only Giovanni is home. Or would you prefer to continue having this conversation out in the street?”

Nicolò glances at Yusuf and—nope, he really would not like to do this in public.

Lucrezia herds them into the courtyard, closes up behind her, and turns around with her hands planted on her hips. It’s the same _why-must-I-suffer-such-fools_ attitude she’d had when Nicolò had announced his vocation and, as such, the end of their betrothal.

“You… married _Giovanni_?” Nicolò asks, and instantly regrets it.

The glare that Lucrezia bestows upon him is powerful enough that he almost wishes he could turn back time to suck it up and marry her, just to avoid ever ending up in this specific situation and having this particular conversation at any possible future moment.

“Just to be clear,” she says slowly, “you forfeited any opinions on my marriage the day you decided that you would not be _in_ it.”

Nicolò winces but his brain is a just a fraction slower than his mouth, which says, “Yes, but Gio—”

“ _And then_ ,” Lucrezia interrupts, “you disappear for _years_ , letting all of us believe you died a horrible death far from home, when it turns out you are perfectly well and have been simply gallivanting about with some _infidel_ this whole time. But you’d like to question _my_ choices, Nicolò?”

Nicolò manages to keep his mouth shut this time, mostly because those are valid points and he has nothing to say in his own defense. Okay, there’s one thing he’d like to say, but really this isn’t the time to—

"Sorry," Yusuf says, finally turning his gaze from Nicolò to Lucrezia, “if I may, I realize we’ve only just met, but calling me ‘some infidel’ is really quite—”

“Yusuf, please,” Nicolò hisses, quietly but desperately, because _yes_ , but also this _really_ _isn’t the time_ for it. He regrets interrupting immediately, as both of them turn to him with astonishingly identical expressions of disbelief, albeit for very different reasons.

He doesn’t really know how to explain Yusuf to Lucrezia, much like he hasn’t known how to explain Lucrezia to Yusuf, and he’d really prefer to continue avoiding the question for as long as feasible. But as much as Nicolò would like to say _I told you so_ and hold Yusuf partly accountable for this minor catastrophe, since it’s technically his fault that they’re even in Genova, it is unfortunately clear that, once again, Yusuf would be in the right if he blamed the resulting clusterfuck on Nicolò.

Nicolò is trying to figure out the fastest way to get the fuck out of there, and also whether this is still a situation where doing that thing with his tongue later will be enough for Yusuf to forgive him,when the door opens and Giovanni steps out into the courtyard, and everything fully descends into chaos.

* * *

Nicolò has been working so hard these past few years to learn how to control his temper. There have been breathing exercises and stretching routines and learning how to communicate what he’s actually feeling in clear ways that don’t involve shouting or stabbing. He’s made progress; Yusuf can vouch for him.

It all disappears when he’s face-to-face with Giovanni. Nicolò wasn’t lying to Yusuf when he said his brothers were assholes, and his relationship with Giovanni has always been the worst. Nicolò thinks Giovanni is a pretentious, shallow douchebag. Giovanni thinks Nicolò is an unstable, self-centered creep, and Nicolò knows this because historically Giovanni was not terribly diplomatic about the things he said when bullying his younger brother.

Nicolò doesn’t particularly care to think of himself as creepy, but he has to admit that the other bits might have some basis in reality.

The fight isn’t pretty, and Nicolò knows it’s not productive, but he can’t _help_ shouting at Giovanni, just a little bit. It’s cathartic, at least, to finally tell Giovanni exactly where he can shove it, especially after being subjected to a whole fucking tirade about abandoning his family and nearly ruining Lucrezia’s reputation and then fucking off to fight Moors after all the sacrifices they’d made to get him into the monastery because he’d insisted on spending his life sitting around chanting and doodling in books, and _then_ returning from the dead years later with a fucking Saracen in tow.

Nicolò takes great pleasure in reminding Giovanni exactly how few fucks he gave about Nicolò’s whereabouts when Nicolò was actually around (zero), how many times Nicolò was consulted about his own betrothal (zero), and how many financial hardships they’d suffered after paying Nicolò’s monastic endowment (also zero).

“But yes, fine, joining Guglielmo’s forces was—uh, extremely ill-advised, although probably not for the reasons _you_ think, and yes, I regret almost everything that came out of that particular decision. Almost.”

Yusuf has watched the whole scene unfold before him in uncharacteristic silence. It’s not that Nicolò forgot he was there, exactly, it’s just that he got so worked up about Giovanni that only when he catches a glimpse of Yusuf out of the corner of his eye do his priorities manage to fall back in line.

“You know what, fuck this,” he tells Giovanni. He’s so, so tired all of a sudden. And between Giovanni and Lucrezia, they’ve hurled more insults about Yusuf than Nicolò has heard since—well, since he was the one hurling the insults. Or maybe since that one incredibly rude fishmonger in Ankara. Either way, it’s been years and it's not okay.

Plus, Nicolò _loves_ Yusuf, which apparently means that hearing people insult him pisses Nicolò off more than the mere presence of his shithead brother.

“The thing is,” he continues, looking between Giovanni, Lucrezia and Yusuf, where his gaze hesitates and then lingers, “I can’t quite bring myself to regret all of it, because if I had never broken off my engagement, and if I had never gone to Jerusalem, I never would have met Yusuf.”

Yusuf raises a deeply skeptical eyebrow and Giovanni snorts audibly. Lucrezia just looks thoughtful, which is an unsettling expression on her.

Suddenly, Nicolò is speaking directly to Yusuf and Yusuf alone, because really he’s the only one who matters anyway. “I’ve fucked up a lot. Repeatedly. Over and over. Which you know, because it’s also happened quite a few times in the past, uh, five years?” All three of them now have eyebrows disappearing into hairlines. Shit. “Seven years? _Longer_?”

Nicolò is really digging himself deeper, because what kind of normal mortal human cannot keep track of a handful of years? Yusuf just looks disappointed, which is worse. Nicolò drops it, squares his shoulders and barrels onward.

“The point is—Yusuf, the thing is, meeting you is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. And I just—you already knew so many bad things about me, I was afraid that if you knew the rest, you wouldn’t want to— I mean, I’ve broken _so many_ vows and let down _so many_ people—” The inability to string together a full sentence is exhausting. He grits his teeth. “I hope you can forgive me one more time?”

It isn’t really meant to be a question, but _God_ , Yusuf really has put up with so much of his shit already, and he is looking at Nicolò so _seriously_. Nicolò loves him so much, he feels like he might just liquefy with the effort of holding it together.

There’s another snort and then the sound of poorly suppressed cackling. Yusuf isn’t _saying_ anything, so Nicolò finally whirls to face Lucrezia, where she’s buried her face in both hands, shoulders shaking.

“ _Seriously_?” he snaps.

She lifts her head, nearly crying with mirth. “Oh God,” she gasps, “I can’t believe I never understood it before.”

She looks a little hysterical, and Nicolò would be getting angry all over again if he wasn’t more concerned about Yusuf right now.

“At first, I just thought you didn’t want _me_. But that was clearly ludicrous—I mean, look at me and look at you,” she adds, making was seems to be a very rude gesture about Nicolò’s nose. “So then I assumed that you were one of those deviants didn’t want _anyone_. Really, Nicolò, the monastic vocation was so clearly an excuse borne of desperation.

“But now,” Lucrezia says with a smile that shows all of her teeth, “oh my God, it was always obvious, wasn’t it.”

Nicolò has an idea of where this is going, and it’s exactly why he should have known better than to come back here. 

“Giovanni,” Lucrezia says conspiratorially, a nasty edge to her tone, “your little brother is a sodomite.”

Niciolo braces himself for the shouting to start up again, but Giovanni just scowls like he half-expected this and it’s every bit as disagreeable as anticipated.

“I always knew there was something wrong with you. Lucky thing that you’re already presumed to be long dead, isn’t it? Saves us the effort of figuring out what to do about you now.” Giovanni flicks a hand dismissively and holds his arm out to his wife. “Let’s put this unpleasantness behind us, darling. My sinner brother and his dirty barbarian can let themselves out. ”

Lucrezia shoots him one last disdainful glance, and then the two of them sweep into the house and close the door firmly behind them. Really, Nicolò thinks, they’ve always deserved each other.

When he turns around, the courtyard gate is open and Yusuf is gone.

* * *

The thing is, Nicolò really never expected to come back to Genova, even before he met Yusuf and died and came back and did it all over again. It’s not that he _wanted_ to die, but—well, surviving the so-called holy war seemed somewhat improbable, so he hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking past it. He doesn’t really know what he would have done if he hadn’t been killed; it’s laughable, now, to think that he might have returned to the monastery. Maybe he would have stayed in Jerusalem and devoted the rest of his well-intentioned but deeply misguided life to trying to convert and dominate Yusuf’s people. That, too, is an unappealing thought.

This whole day—the streets he still has memorized, the smells he remembers, speaking Genoese with Lucrezia and Giovanni—it makes him feel like a stranger in his own body. Everything around him is the same as it was, and his body recognizes all of it, instinctively. He’s operating on muscle memory, and nobody else can tell that _inside_ he’s a different person now.

Nobody except Yusuf. _Fuck_.

He has no idea where Yusuf might have gone, or how he’ll find him in the maze of the old city. They weren’t planning to stay, so they haven’t rented a room, but they also haven’t talked through their onward route. If Nicolò has to learn fucking English to track the women in their dreams all alone in the hopes that it will lead him back to Yusuf, he’ll—

Obviously he’ll do it, if that’s what it takes, but he will _not_ be happy about it. It’s bad enough he’s had to figure out Yusuf’s weird mix of Arabic and Tamazight; the English nonsense just sounds like drunk German gargling. What is even the point of it.

Attempting to quell his mounting panic by convincing himself that it will be _fine_ and he’ll just learn all the languages and search all the boats until he finds Yusuf or the women, or hopefully both, Nicolò takes a deep breath, strides out of the courtyard and into the street, and nearly trips over Yusuf.

“Nicolò!” Yusuf scrambles to his feet and grabs Nicolò’s shoulders, steadying him. “I’m so sorry, I never meant for—I should have listened when you said you didn’t want to—I just had no idea it was—”

Nicolò stares at him, trying to pull his mind back from where it’s already sprinted desperately halfway across the Alps. Yusuf is still here, waiting for him, voice gentle and hands solid. Nicolò slides his own arms around Yusuf’s waist just to make sure he doesn’t try to make a break for it.

“What are you talking about?” Nicolò asks finally, cutting Yusuf off mid-ramble.

“Um,” Yusuf says. “I think I’m apologizing for making us come here. You said no but I pushed, and it’s my fault that you had to—”

It’s a terrible idea, in broad daylight in the middle of the street right outside his family’s house, but Yusuf is just so kind and so wonderful and so very dumb, and Nicolò absolutely does not deserve him, so he kisses him. People can see them. Possibly people who will recognize Nicolò. People who have known him since he was a child, even. Nicolò does not give a single solitary fuck. What are they going to do to him, anyway?

Nicolò pulls away just enough to breathe, forehead resting against Yusuf’s. “I thought you’d left just now,” he admits.

“ _What_?” Yusuf says. He gently shoves Nicolò further back to catch his eye. “Why the fuck would you think that?

His expression is earnest and intense and Nicolò has to look away. “I mean, I kept a lot from you on purpose, and that was a shitty way to find out about Lucrezia, and then she and Giovanni called you a lot of horrible things, and Giovanni and I—”

Yusuf interrupts with a firm finger over Nicolò’s lips. “Nicolò,” he says seriously, “You said it yourself: I’ve seen you fuck up _so many times._ You thought _that_ little family reunion was too much? Do I need to remind you that you once literally pushed me off a cliff?”

Nicolò scowls at him. “You do _not_ need to remind me, but it’s been—I thought I’d been doing better. I’ve been _trying_.” He sounds desperate and he knows it, but God, if Yusuf realizes that Nicolò is still kind of a horrible person, and maybe always will be, and if he—

Yusuf kisses him again. Nicolò seizes his opportunity and does the tongue thing, because what if this is his last shot, and Yusuf gasps into his mouth and then—fully steps an arms’ length away.

“Okay but _that_ ,” he pants, “why would you do _that_ in the middle of the street? Wallahi Nicolò, there is only so much a man can take.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and Nicolò knows it was playing dirty, but frankly it was not the first time and if it _worked_ then it’s worth it.

Slightly more composed, Yusuf looks back up. “Seriously, Nico. Let’s at least get out of town. I don’t care where. Full offense, I don’t really want to have to see any more of your family.”

* * *

They hike out the way they’d come, walking in surprisingly comfortable silence until they’re wellpast the city walls and into the hills. _Nico_ , echoes in Nicolò's mind. It's the first time Yusuf's called him that. It's the first time _anyone_ has called him that since he was a child, and even then it was only ever his mother. Nicolò likes the way it sounds now, on Yusuf's lips.

When they reach a clearing, a secluded little meadow on an incline amongst the trees, Yusuf sighs, drops his rucksack, and collapses on his back in the tall grass. He throws out an arm to pat the ground beside him, and Nicolò goes willingly.

The sweet smell of grass, the gentle rustling of the breeze, and the cloudless expanse of blue above help draw Nicolò out of his head, help him breathe in the crisp air and breathe out the day’s events. Yusuf takes his hand, and that helps too.

“I’m still sorry about today,” Nicolò says after a long moment.

Yusuf shrugs one shoulder. “I forgive you.” He says it easily, like it’s no big deal, and Nicolò inexplicably wants to cry. Honestly, what a fucking day. “I’m still sorry too,” Yusuf says.

Nicolò swallows. “And I forgive you, too, you know.”

Yusuf just squeezes his hand. They fall silent, listening to a disoriented gull circling overhead, letting their eyes fall gently shut against the sun. Finally, just as Nicolò thinks he might nod off, Yusuf drops his hand and pushes himself to standing, then reaches back down to pull Nicolò up.

“Let’s go?” He asks.

Nicolò nods. “To England, and the women of our dreams.”

Yusuf rolls his eyes so hard that Nicolò thinks he might hurt himself, and that seems like as good a moment as any to say the words that have been clawing their way up Nicolò’s throat since they looked over Genova that morning.

“Hey Yusuf?” He says, aiming for casual and possibly coming off as slightly unhinged.

Yusuf, who had started to steer them back towards their abandoned bags, turns and grins cheekily. “Hey Nicolò.”

“I wanted to say,” Nicolò starts, “uh, you should know—” _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, out with it already_. “I love you.”

Yusuf’s eyes go wide and his grin melts into something softer, but harder to decipher. Nicolò would be freaking out, except Yusuf is still squeezing his hand. He forces himself not to look away.

“You do?” Yusuf asks quietly. Nicolò can feel his face heating up as the moment drags on, and he doesn’t completely trust his voice, so he just nods. “You love me?”

The moment is broken. “Okay,” Nicolò says, “there’s no need for that. You don’t have to say it, it’s not like it’s really a big deal, it just felt like something that—”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says, “you Frankish imbecile, why do you think I put up with your fuckups? _Of course_ I love you.”

He pulls Nicolò into his arms, dips him backwards so suddenly and so far that Nicolò is forced to clutch at his shoulders, and kisses him full on the mouth. When _Yusuf_ does the tongue thing, Nicolò goes lightheaded and limp enough that they nearly overbalance and tumble down the length of the clearing. It’s perfect.

“I love you,” Yusuf says again, after they have clumsily righted themselves but before Nicolò has managed to stop clinging to him. “But at some point, I would also like to hear the entire Lucrezia story. I have been trying all afternoon and I just cannot picture you being engaged to her.”

Nicolò huffs out a little wet laugh and pulls a face. “It was horrible. But I’ll tell you anything you want to know, promise.” He presses a hand to Yusuf’s chest, over the place where his miracle of a heart is thumping steadily.

Yusuf folds his own hand over Nicolò’s. “So,” he muses, “how many sheep did her father have to promise for you to agree to the betrothal? And how much were you _dreading_ your wedding night? Also, and I admit this is slightly off-topic, but has Giovanni always looked quite that much like a constipated ostrich?”

Nicolò grimaces. “I regret everything.”

Yusuf grins. “I know.”

Nicolò runs a thumb along his jawline, through the wiry curls of his beard. “A lot, a _lot_ , and yes, ever since he was a child.” He kisses Yusuf’s smile, feels the rumble of his laughter.

Yusuf swings his bag over his shoulder and chucks Nicolò’s at his chest. “Come on then, start at the beginning.”

Nicolò takes his hand, and he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
